The words he spoke were innocent enough, straightforward enough, but there was something about the way he said them that made her flesh creep. She shook her head, beginning to back slowly out of the office. “No, that’s okay. I’ll come back later when he’s in.”

“He may not be in for a while,” the mailman said.

Now both his words and his manner had taken on a distinctly threatening edge, though he continued to hold his plastic smile in place.

She turned to go, her skin prickling with cold despite the oppressively warm air.

“You’re nice,” the mailman said, and his voice took on a sly suggestive quality.

She whirled around, feeling both the anger and the fear coursing through her veins. “You stay away from me, you slimy son of a bitch, or I’ll have you in jail so fast your head will spin.”

The mailman’s smile grew wider. “Billy’s nice too.”

She stared at him, unable to think of a retort, the words reverberating in her head to the rhythm of her furiously pounding heart, Billy’s nice too Billy’s nice too Billy’s nice too, the fear, now on the surface, taking control, no longer something she could contain. She wanted to run from the building, hop in the car, and take off, but some inner reserve of strength came to her rescue and she said coldly, “Fuck you, I’m going to the police.” Walking slowly, assuredly, confidently, she left the building and got into the Bronco.

But she did not go to the police. And it was not until she was well off the highway and almost to the first crossing that she had to pull over and park the car until she had stopped shaking enough to continue driving.

19